


cross all the lines, break all the rules

by la_victorienne



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: This is the story everyone called afterThe Impossible Astronaut.





	

He tells her the truth, when she asks, because if you’re going to tell someone it might as well be someone who hop-skip-jumps the fabric of the universe with a looney tune for kicks. “I just wanted to get married.”

“Is that a crime?” she asks, and it occurs to him that he might have gotten more than he bargained for, if the answer isn’t as obvious to her as it seems to be to everyone else.

In the end he just says yes, simply, and changes the subject, because talking about it any longer isn’t going to change anything much less help the code-name-doctor save the little girl. But he can see the gears working in Amy’s head, tumblers clicking into place, and she looks at him with kindness when she answers, even if it is in riddles.

She’s no idiot, this Amy. She knows people. She knows him. It reminds him all to strongly of Elijah. Elijah, who had seen right through him, through his gun and his posturing and his FBI voice, right into the heart of what Canton had kept so deep for so long. He’d been the first, and the best, and the only. And now he was gone.

He’d had no choice, really. The doctor’s box was just another line to cross.

 

 

 

 

“Cigarette?”

Canton looked up from his notebook, twirling the pen in his fingers. “No, thank you,” he said curtly. “I don’t smoke.”

The man grinned. “No, nor I. At least, not if anyone asks. Someone like you, though—I might make the exception.” He sat in the chair opposite, crossing one leg over the other, and tapped out a cigarette anyway. “How about a drink?”

Canton shifted, uncomfortable under the careful, easy scrutiny. “I don’t drink, either. On duty.”

He was met with a shrug. “Suit yourself. But you wouldn’t begrudge me your company, would you?”

And all right, Canton was a little flustered, and of course he had a gun and badge to fall back on, but the man’s voice was like syrup, thick and sweet, and his hands were big, and warm, probably, and just because Canton was private, that didn’t make him blind. “No, of course not,” he said, and the man smiled a dangerous, thrilling smile.

“I’m Elijah,” he said, and offered the hand without the cigarette for Canton to shake. “Pleasure to meet you.”

 

 

 

 

It’s always so clear, when he looks back. Before long it was second nature, sitting in a diner, knees pressed together under the table, trying not to smile over the rim of his coffee. And then diners were dinners and Elijah was on his doorstep, and it always took Canton a moment to catch his breath before pulling him inside by his tie, anchoring himself in Elijah’s body even before drinks could be poured. They always came together like wildfire, high on the secrecy and the danger and that sound Elijah made every time he slid inside, Canton’s ankles over his shoulders, that hitch and gasp and groan all rolled into one. Always hard, but never rough, Canton’s pale fingers on Elijah’s dark skin, tight enough to leave marks. Oh, yes. He remembers it clearly.

 

 

 

 

The FBI asked him to leave the moment they found out, his boss explaining it all with guilty eyes. He went home, and they fought—over sacrifice and desire and where would you go if I didn’t keep you and if that’s what you think you’ll sure as hell find out and the slam of the door and the clink of whiskey and ice. He looked, but Elijah was nowhere to be found, and then it was a blur of bars and stares and never really being able to bring himself to go into the men’s room with a couple of bucks, not quite. How could they know what he wanted, what he liked? The bristle of Elijah’s hair under his palms, the warm smell of his skin, the taste of his fingertips, the curve of his mouth. By the time he meets the Doctor, he knows he’ll never settle for anyone else.

So why not jump into the box? It’s not like he has anything left to lose.

 

 

 

 

The President reinstates him, and says it’s the best he can do. Not that it matters, with an empty apartment and a head full of memories he can’t quite remember. So he goes home, with his gun and his badge, just like always, and pours a drink.

“Thought you said you didn’t drink on duty.”

“Everything changes,” he says, eyes closed.

“Some things don’t,” Elijah tells him, and takes the glass out of his hand.

 

 

 

 

Outside, the echo of a siren fades away.


End file.
